


The One Girl in All the World

by seldomifever



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Episode S01e12 Prophecy Girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25954942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seldomifever/pseuds/seldomifever
Summary: Sometimes the burden is more than she can bear.
Relationships: Rupert Giles/Buffy Summers
Comments: 11
Kudos: 41
Collections: Watcher and Slayer





	The One Girl in All the World

**Author's Note:**

> Rating is more for Buffy's age than anything else

She needs him. 

She needs to see him, feel him near, have him touch her hand, and hear him say, “Everything is going to be all right.” He lies like that for her sometimes. Tells her what she needs to hear when she needs to hear it, like now, when the tightness in her chest makes it hard for her to catch her breath. “The one girl in all the world,” he says. Sometimes the burden is more than she can bear.

“Giles?” she whispers into the phone.

“Buffy,” he says and, without even asking why, finds his way to her father’s house the next morning.

She feels him before she sees him, answers the door before he can knock. The flutter in her stomach surprises her; it's been so long since she's felt anything but miserable. 

He’s wearing the same heavy clothes—right down to the sweater vest—that he wore throughout the school year, even though it’s summer, and they’re in the middle of a heatwave, and his Citroen has no air conditioning. His hair, damp with sweat, curls around his ears and neck. His smile is shy, hers, embarrassed. Buffy wants to be strong; she hates feeling this needy. She steps aside but can't stop herself from reaching out and clutching the sleeve of his tweed jacket as he passes. She closes the door and pulls him into her arms. 

Giles hugs her back. Not too hard, but not at all gentle. And not at all like the hug makes him uncomfortable, which Buffy thinks it must. They almost never touch in Sunnydale, unless it’s necessary, like when they’re sparring, or when she has a wound that needs bandaging, or when he’s gathering her in his arms as she lies dying from a witch's curse. Buffy feels herself flush at the memory of being cradled in his strong embrace, and shivers. They do not, as a rule, hug. She nuzzles his coat and smiles when she catches the scent of oranges and cloves. Pomanders. The ones she and Willow made for him to use in his closet instead of mothballs. Her smile fades. 

She pulls away and asks if she can get him anything. 

“Water?” he says, more like he’s asking a question than answering one. 

Buffy returns from the kitchen and finds Giles standing in the foyer, where she left him. He’s peering into the living room as if studying her father’s taste: gray walls, black furniture, modern—the exact opposite of his own, she realizes. Buffy sees him staring at the Rothko-like painting above the fireplace. Giles knows art. He once came into her mother’s gallery on a Saturday when Buffy was working there, helping her mom sort through new inventory, and he and Joyce spoke for nearly an hour about it. Buffy had been bored and impatient, waiting for them to finish. And maybe just a little jealous. She and Giles never talk about art or literature or any of the other things that interest him. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“What exactly does your father do?” Giles asks, still taking in his surroundings as she hands him a glass of ice water. 

“Management consultant.”

He raises an eyebrow, and she adds, “I have no idea what that means, except that he makes lots and travels much. He’s in New York now.”

Giles frowns. Maybe because he doesn’t approve of her being left by herself or maybe because he realizes they’re all alone--Buffy isn’t sure which.

“He’ll be back Thursday,” she offers.

“Ah,” he says. And Buffy has no idea what that means either. 

Giles takes several large gulps, half emptying his drink. When he finishes, Buffy leads him over to the couch. They sit, and Giles glances around for what Buffy knows is a coaster—he’s thoughtful like that.

“Just put it anywhere. Table’s glass.” 

Giles places his drink down. Condensation pools where the surfaces meet. Buffy stares at the water. It’s easier than looking at him. The ice cubes crackle and break apart and draw together again. Cohesion. At least she learned something in science class last year. Doctor Gregory taught them that, right before they moved onto bugs, right before the she-mantis beheaded him. A lump forms in her throat. She wishes she’d been able to save him. He’d been so kind.

Buffy shifts, half-facing Giles with one leg curled under her. Giles leans back against the cushions, waiting. She feels she should be filling the silence with chatter, but since she died, she’s had little interest in small talk. 

“I’m having nightmares," Buffy says softly.

“Oh?” Giles sits up and turns towards her.

Buffy looks away, stares across the room at the small white marble statue of a hand that rests on her father’s side table, and decides it’s wrong to decorate a living room with disembodied body parts. 

“The Master kills me every night. I can’t stop him.” The words tumble out unexpectedly. She frowns. _Blurt-o Girl_.

“Oh, Buffy,” Giles says, his voice filled with sympathy. His hand reaches for hers. It’s large and much warmer than her own. She closes her eyes and hopes, for a second, that he’ll never let go.

She looks up and gazes into his soft eyes, watching her intently. She takes a deep breath and says, “Sometimes, when the Master attacks me, he looks like you.” His eyes widen in horror.

“You come to me and tell me there’s a new big bad we need to face, and then you lunge at me. Your fingers are around my neck. I fight back; I’m clawing at your face. It tears off in my hands. The Master’s been wearing a mask of your face. He’s choking me. I can’t breathe.” Her chest tightens, and for a moment, she feels like she can't breathe.

Buffy sinks into the cushions of the couch. She’d hoped telling Giles might somehow make her feel better, but saying it out loud only leaves her feeling drained.

Giles tugs her hand gently, pulling her towards him, and wraps his arm around her shoulders in a loose embrace. Hugging is awkward on the couch. Buffy snuggles closer. He’s warm; his touch so unlike Angel’s icy caress.

“I’m sorry,” he says, rubbing her back. She feels the heat of his hand through her halter top. His fingertips sear where they stray over the fabric, brushing across her bare skin.

She rests her head on his shoulder and tucks her forehead into his neck. She can smell his aftershave now. Dark and woodsy. Stronger than the pomander. The Giles in her dreams never smells like this. 

His lips brush the top of her head. She clutches his lapel. She can feel his heart beating against the back of her hand. He is alive; this is no dream. She feels an urgent need to be closer, longs to crawl into his skin, feel his warmth, make all the terrible thoughts disappear. She buries her face in his neck. He swallows hard but does not pull away. If anything, he holds her tighter. 

“I am so sorry,” he says and places another light kiss on the top of her head. 

Buffy kisses his neck, in response, quickly, without thinking. She pulls away and watches his throat as he swallows hard again. Buffy hesitates and then gives in to an impulse and runs her finger along his Adam's apple. Giles freezes, like prey that somehow believes if it stays perfectly still, it can go on living its life, unnoticed. Does that make her the predator, she wonders? A funny feeling stirs in her belly, a light feather tickling her insides. She leans forward and kisses his neck again slowly; she opens her mouth and touches her wet tongue to his hot skin. Giles gasps and the tickle turns to liquid heat, rushing from her belly to her-- _oh_. Buffy bites down gently, scraping her teeth along his throat; she sucks his neck. She should leave a mark, she thinks. She wants to leave a mark.

“Buffy,” Giles whispers like he’s letting out a breath he’s been holding. A gentle warning. 

Buffy loosens her grip and releases her shaky breath against his throat. “I know,” she says. And she does, but that doesn’t stop her from pulling back, just far enough to meet his gaze. Giles blinks slowly. His clear green eyes stare back at her. Buffy can read them now, sees the love and compassion, the arousal and fear. And that's when she realizes she knows exactly what she wants. She leans forward until her mouth is within an inch of his. His eyes flutter closed. Warm breath on her lips, heart pounding beneath her hand. Buffy smiles easily this time. She feels more powerful than she has in weeks.


End file.
